A Never Ending Story
by Your Angel of Music
Summary: Christian and Syed know better than anyone that there's no such thing as happy endings - just new chapters in a never-ending story. A series of vignette's charting the next chapter in Chryed's story.
1. Rocky Roads

**Title:** A Never Ending Story  
**Author:** MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
**Rating:** M overall, but 98% of it will be lower than that.  
**Spoilers:** Everything  
**Summary:** Christian and Syed know better than anyone that there's no such thing as happy endings - just new chapters in a never-ending story.

**A/N:** This is not going to be a long, plotted fic, because, as you may have gathered, I am rather rubbish when it comes to finishing those. What it is going to be, however, is a series of vignettes that chart Christian and Syed's new life; snapshots of their life, moments that they share, key points rather than the whole narrative. Because there is so much to be explored. I really want to relish the new found creative freedom we have with these characters, and give myself the opportunity to write whatever takes me at the time.

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**Never Ending Story**__

Rocky Roads

The hotel room is alright, considering it was only booked today (or was it yesterday? Syed has lost track). There's enough space for them to have already made it their own; odds and ends spill from their open suitcases, and a few pieces of discarded clothing lie crumpled around the bed like worshippers circling an altar. The road outside is a little loud, granted, and the humidity isn't something they're used to after the gloomy streets of East London, but, all in all, it's okay.

Syed lies still, staring at the ceiling as he counts the gentle breaths from the other side of the bed. The sheets are shucked to the side, one of his legs hanging lazily over the edge of the mattress. Even if this hadn't given him some respite from the heat, he wouldn't have had much choice in the whole 'leg-out-in-the-open' business. Christian has stolen the covers.

By all accounts, he should be exhausted. First the flight was delayed; then the plane had hit turbulence, shaking them awake with a calculated viciousness every time they began to doze off; when they'd finally got off the plane and managed to find their bags (Christian had rainbow tags, which Syed would have rolled his eyes at if hadn't made the whole bag-finding process a lot easier), they'd received a message from Jane saying she couldn't meet them, but she'd booked a hotel room and a taxi in their name and all – all, yes, _all_ – they had to do was find it.

When they'd finally stumbled in to their room at some godawful time, all sense of time and space – and anything other than opening suitcases for the bare essentials, and then getting undressed, and then collapsing on the bed – had been left somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

It wasn't exactly how he'd envisaged the first day of their 'new life'.

After all, aren't reunions or eloping or epic love stories or whatever it was that they're supposed to be doing sealed with slow, burning, passionate love-making? It all seems pretty disappointing at face value, as he remembers nothing more intimate than the hand on his back to steady him as he nearly tripped over the corner of the bed. There was the kiss to his forehead as they settled, the warm heat of Christian's body stretched out so that their limbs just touched - but it hadn't taken long for Christian to fall asleep, rolling over to the other side of the bed and taking the covers with him.

Not that Syed minds. He figures he owes him that.

But he can't sleep. Not yet.

The future seems to be a looming large, a lot more foreboding than it had been as they left the Square hand-in-hand. The less-than-smooth introduction to 'living the dream', as his dad had graciously put it, has fuelled a nervousness that niggles under his skull. It's a timely reminder that there's no such thing as a happy ending; because it's never an ending, there's always more story to be told, and the next chapter is something that both terrifies and thrills him.

Syed knows that they still have a way to go – they have a lot to rebuild, to re-find, to work out in order to make sure that the next ending turns out as well as this last one, and the next one, and the next one. Because he also knows that they haven't fixed anything, not really, other than their conviction to try. But trying is the most important part. And he believes they can do it. They've as good as promised each other that they will succeed. There's no way out, no going back now, no ducking out or avoiding the issue. They have made their choice, and they will make it work. Because they want to. And because it's so, so worth it.

Still, the weight of everything he's done sits heavily on him, pressing down with the humidity to squash any threat of sleep from his mind. He can't shake the guilt. Or the fear. A part of him wants to go to his mum for a hug, or to Tamwar for advice, or to Yasmin, just to pick her up in the middle of the night and breathe her in as he whisper his worries and hopes and dreams into her hair.

But he can't do that. Not now. Because this is _them_. Him and Christian. No one else. Not for a while.

And he knows that's what they need.

Syed shifts onto his side, shuffling inelegantly across the bed so that Christian's heat bathes him in a warm glow. He closes his eyes for a second, reaching out a hand, laying it on Christian's back and moving forward until it's pressed between them.

"Christian?"

Christian doesn't respond immediately. Syed repeats the word like a mantra, softy, until he hears a snuffling sound and feels Christian begin to shift into consciousness.

"Hng – what?"

His words are slurred, croaky, little more than a low breath skittering on the edges of sleep. Syed closes his eyes again, before pressing his lips gently to the centre of Christian's shoulder blades. The sensation brings Christian around a little more, especially as Syed breaks the kiss but keeps his forehead resting against the back of Christian's neck. It's as though, now he has it, he can't break the contact. And although he can tell by the cadence of Christian's breath, by the way his muscles tense and relax, that Christian is awake, or as awake as he is going to be, he doesn't feel any movement.

As though Christian is waiting for him to speak.

His lips brush Christian's back again, pressing against the heated skin, and he can't pull them away.

"We're going to be okay, aren't we?"

He can't decide whether it's a statement or a question; it sounds more like a question from his lips than he intended, his fear bleeding out of the words and into Christian's flesh. He keeps his face against Christian's neck, buried, hiding, attuning every nerve into his body, reading his response, his language, the unspoken words that he really, _really_ needs to hear.

Christian moves but doesn't turn; sudden but gentle, his hand reaching around his body, fingers splayed out, seeking, searching, wanting, inviting - and Syed takes it, silently prising his hand from Christian's back and linking their fingers together, letting Christian manoeuvre their joined hands until Syed's palm is pressed to the centre of his gently thrumming chest.

When Syed wakes up in the morning, their positions have shifted – unconsciously seeking some respite from the unbearable heat of their two bodies – but he's still holding Christian's hand.

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Thank you for reading!


	2. Firsts

**Title:** A Never Ending Story  
**Author:** MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
**Rating:** M overall, but a lot of it will be lower than that.  
**Spoilers:** Everything  
**Summary:** Christian and Syed know better than anyone that there's no such thing as happy endings - just new chapters in a never-ending story.

**A/N:** The first few vignettes will feel more like chapters in a plotty fic, because I'm covering a short space of time. However, they will definitely become more vignette-y (Shakespeare made up words, I can do it too) as time goes on and I get past this initial stage. Thank you so much to **Elphie** for beta-ing the first chapter, and to **Jenn** for beta-ing this one. Love you, girlies!

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**A Never Ending Story**

****_Firsts_

As far as first meetings go, Christian thinks as he drowns in a sea of unpacked clothes, today could have gone a hell of a lot worse.

Sitting on the bed in the middle of the spare room, with his bag half unpacked on the pillow next to him, Christian can't help but focus in on the strangeness of the whole situation – moving into a room in his parents' house, his whole family together again, and all that with Syed by his side (wherever he is – Christian thinks he's in the bathroom, unpacking their things, but to tell you the truth he could very easily have been taken downstairs for his mother's expert interrogation by now).

He'd expected his mother to give Syed a hard time (after all, she knew why Christian initially planned to come here on his own), but she'd seemed to put 'keeping the peace' above 'being a tiger mother' on her list of things to do today. Which, to tell you the truth, he was grateful for. A tiny part of him felt a tiny bit disappointed – if there was anything that would serve as punishment for how Syed had hurt him, it would be a tongue-lashing from his mother – but the past was the past and now is now, and that's all Christian wants to focus on.

And his mum seems to like Syed well enough. She'd warmed to him quickly during their Skype conversations over the past few years. She saw Syed as quiet, reserved, yet also stern, able to keep some of Christian's wilder and more impulsive traits in check (which, as she'd told him on many an occasion, was something he sorely needed). She also saw him as the man who had finally taught Christian that he could love, and who had stolen a space in the 'big-as-the-Atlantic' heart that she kept going on about. And for that, as she also never failed to mention, she already loved him.

This, Christian guesses, overshadows everything that she's been told about recently (and the extent of that was up for debate. He really should interrogate Jane about how much she's said) as she took Syed's hand and led him unsteadily on a tour of their house. She is a lot more fragile than she had been the last time Christian saw her, and that's enough to twist uncomfortably in his gut. She looks ill. Even though she managed to fuss and bluster with as much gusto as she always had (the memory of Syed's whispered 'oh god, she's just like mum' brings a smile to Christian's face as he begins to near the end of his unpacking), there's a fragility to her that he's never seen before.

But that's the future. For now, he's here, and no one has ripped anyone's head off, and she likes Syed, and that's fine.

Jane wasn't quite so easy. But then again, she's always been more protective of Christian than their mum had. Even when he was seventeen, and everything went so very wrong, she'd been the one to take a stand for him rather than his own mother (and wow, didn't that still hurt). So a curt nod and brusque 'Syed' of acknowledgement was as good as Syed was going to get at the moment – and actually, as Syed had confessed to him later on, it was a damned sight better than what he'd been expecting.

As for his dad – well – Christian uses more force than is really necessary to fold the final t-shirt that he pulls from his bag – that's going to be interesting. Very interesting. And although Christian likes interesting – revels in it, even (it was one of the words that best sums up his relationship with Syed, after all) – this isn't the kind of interesting he's looking forward to. At all.

His musings are interrupted as Syed walks in; hoisting the now empty bag into the corner of the room, Christian turns to face him, a smile on his face which is part 'I love you and I like seeing you' and part 'thank you forever for blocking that particular train of thought'.

"You know something?" he balances the pile of folded clothes on his palm, making his way over to the chest of drawers and dumping it away and out of sight. "You're lucky - I think my mum likes you, which means you're only going to get the partial interrogation and not the full bamboo-sticks-under-the-fingernails job that she'd probably do on anyone else."

He turns to Syed, the smile still on his face, waiting for a response. He doesn't get one. Syed is shuffling from one foot to another; meeting his gaze and then looking away, his eyes sliding to the side as if he can't quite control it. There's guilt written onto his features. Christian swallows. Hard. That look – that 'I've done something' look – has never meant good things for them in the past.

_Oh god, no, please don't let it be anything else._

"I found these – " Syed clears his throat, holding his clenched fist in the air. At first, Christian can't see anything. He opens his mouth, whether to ask or reassure or whatever (he isn't sure), and then he spots the corners of the box poking out from in between Syed's fingers.

Ah.

"I just found them, when I was unpacking the stuff in the bathroom, and I didn't know – whether you – I mean, when you – "

"When I bought them?" Christian folds his arms as Syed lowers his fist, pinching the box of condoms between the fingers of both hands nervously. There's something bubbling in his stomach. He can't tell whether it's anger. He could probably let it grow into anger, if he wants to. But he doesn't want to.

"D'you mean: did I buy them before or after you decided to come with me?"

Syed freezes for a moment, before jerking his head in a sharp little nod, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. There's that bubbling again, this time in Christian's chest. He tries to hold it back. Because he knows what Syed is trying to say. Did he buy them for them, or did he buy them on the thought that, once he got America, there would be others; new bodies, new boyfriends, new anything that wasn't Syed? And he wants to shout at Syed for that - _what gives you any right? – _but one look at him – the guilt that he's even asked the question, but the plain fact that he couldn't _not_ ask it, that somehow means something – and he can push the bubbling back.

"I bought them this morning," he says quietly, perching on the corner of the bed. "From that little shop near the hotel. Before you woke up."

There's a mixture of relief and guilt on Syed's face, his shoulders noticeably loosening as Christian speaks. He looks down at the box in his hand, still shifting it quietly between his fingers, before looking up at Christian again.

"Christian, we – "

"No," Christian holds up a hand to cut him off mid-sentence.

"But – "

"I don't wanna know. Not yet. Not right now. So we'll use them. For now or as long as we have to. I just - what you did with him – I just don't wanna know."

The silence hangs uncomfortably for a few seconds as Syed searches his face, reading every line and crevice in a way that Christian's never known anyone else to do quite so thoroughly – and then Syed looks down, quietly opening the box and drawing out a single condom. Christian watches as he then closes the box and sets it on the bedside table, fingering the wrapper for a moment before stepping forward and holding it out towards Christian.

"Okay."

As Christian will later recall with a smile, there's nothing particularly romantic about the first time they have sex in their 'new life'. His parents are just down the hall, so there's an awful lot of hushing, and shushing, accompanied by a stream of whispered admonishments and silent laughter at how adolescent it all feels; making their movements as small and smooth as they can so as not to rock the bed against the wall or get the springs going (which is a mean feat in itself, Christian muses, considering this bed appears to be about thirty years old). Syed allows a hint of shame to creep onto his features as Christian opens the condom wrapper and gives it to him – which was sort of the point, and Christian doesn't actually feel all that guilty about it – but, after rolling it on almost tenderly, his hands catch behind Christian's neck and pull him into a kiss that says 'I'm sorry' and 'I love you' and 'I'm an idiot' and 'but you're an idiot too' all at the same time.

Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, there's a comforting familiarity as they settle into well-rehearsed positions: Syed's back flush against Christian's chest, one leg nudged up and over Christian's to give him better access; Christian's hand on his chest (moving to his mouth to block a particularly loud moan halfway through, letting Syed bite down gently on his fingers to muffle the sounds), Syed's reaching back to Christian's hip; Syed's hair filling Christian's mouth, absorbing the vibrations from his vocal cords as they move slowly, and quietly, and together.

Afterwards - when they've cleaned up and Christian lies stretched on his back with Syed's head pillowed comfortably on his chest - Syed clears his throat nervously; waiting for Christian to incline his head questioningly before beginning to speak.

"You know, when I had that guy trying to 'cure' me," he stutters, unsure, his fingers drawing tiny subconscious circles on Christian's chest. "And he tried to tell me that this was unnatural, I told him that it wasn't – that I couldn't breathe unless I touched you, like my heart was breaking out of my chest, and I told him that I would never ever not feel that way. And I still – I still believe that, I still feel that way – it's like my heart stops in my chest every time I look at you, and I know what I've done wrong and I know that I've hurt you but that doesn't change that, I still feel that way, I love you so much and I never ever want to lose you again. I can't. I want to make this work. And I think we can. I love you too much to not fix this. I just – " he looks up, meeting Christian's eyes before dropping back to focus on the figures of eight his fingers are now tracing around Christian's nipple. " – I just wanted to tell you that."

There's a beat. Syed's hand wobbles slightly in its pattern. Christian watches him for a while, his fingers combing gently through the tangles in his hair.

"How much time did you spend practising that?"

Syed flushes, and he tries to hide his face in Christian's chest hair.

"Twenty minutes," he eventually mumbles, his face hot against Christian's skin. "In the bathroom mirror."

Another beat.

And then Christian laughs.

A big laugh. A proper one. Rumbling right through from somewhere deep in his chest. Syed huffs, unburying his face from the warm chest and angling his head towards Christian.

"I was trying to do something nice."

"You're so crap."

"No I'm not, I'm romantic."

"You're ridiculous."

Syed considers for a moment, letting Christian's fingers skitter down his arm and back again before letting out a sigh of resignation.

"I'm ridiculous."

"You are."

"Hopeless."

"Utterly," Christian smiles again, softly, brushing his fingertips through Syed's hair. "But thank you. The effort is appreciated."

Syed grins; kissing Christian's chest once, twice, before extricating himself and settling himself onto his side of the bed to sleep. He's out within seconds. And Christian just listens to his breaths, even and slow, closing his eyes and letting that one sound drown out everything else.

He doesn't sleep for a while. But he doesn't mind.

Because, right now, he's feeling okay. And he'd quite like to hold onto that.

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_Thank you for reading! _


	3. Sick Days

**Title:** A Never Ending Story  
**Author:** MercuryPheonix (Your Angel of Music)  
**Rating:** K (this chapter, M overall)  
**Spoilers:** Everything  
**Summary:** Christian and Syed know better than anyone that there's no such thing as happy endings - just new chapters in a never-ending story.

**A/N:** This started out as just a fic with Christian and Syed lounging about on the couch. And then I got ill. So this happened. Self-insert? Moi? How very dare you.

Thanks once again to **Jenn** for the beta!

* * *

**A Never Ending Story**

_Sick Days_

Christian is not very good at being ill.

Perhaps it's because he isn't actually ill all that often – Syed suspects that the germs take one look at him and decide to run in the other direction – but when illness does strike, it strikes him hard. Syed wouldn't be surprised if the stress of the past few weeks (he swallows back the guilt, because at this point, there are more prescient issues that need attending to), plus the fact he's been too busy settling them both into their new surroundings to catch up on his jetlag, has lowered his defences just enough for the germs to have a rare go. Or it might just be the stress and the exhaustion finally catching up with him. Or he might, as Syed heard him croak earlier, be dying.

Whatever it is is irrelevant – all that matters is that they've barely been at the Clarke's house a week, and Syed finds himself propped on the couch with a feverish, whining forty year old child sprawled across his lap.

The television is on, but Syed is more focused on keeping Christian's head level in his lap, on combing gentle fingers through his hair, on nodding sympathetically every time a disgruntled or pathetic noise creeps out of Christian's lips (he gave up on words a few hours ago, speaking obviously too much effort when the odd moan would pretty much cover it).

Without wanting to sound a little sadistic, Syed has to admit that he doesn't mind this set up at all. For now, just for now, he's able to look after Christian without anything or anyone getting in his way – he's the protector, the one doing the reassuring, brushing Christian's hair behind his ears (it isn't long enough to be pushed back, but it's an action, a touch, that Christian has always loved), letting him cling to his other hand and just generally doing his best to make him feel better. He likes this role. And he's not taken it enough recently.

Because he doesn't want Christian to be his protector. Christian _isn't_ his protector. They protect each other; look after each other; together, a partnership, and, although that might have stuttered lately, he is going to prove to himself and to Christian and to the rest of the world that that still holds true. And this seems like as good a place as any to start.

Christian's breathing begins to even out – still catching in his throat, still slightly shaky, but more even than it's been since Syed woke up to find him overheated and irritable on the other side of the bed. Syed brushes his fingertips through Christian's hair again, mussing up any remnants of yesterday's styling that still clung to the fibres. The hand that clutches his relaxes slightly, but remains locked against Christian's chest, as though it's Syed's job to make sure that he's still alive.

A tiny smile dances on Syed's lips as he watches Christian's features slacken, his body growing slightly heavier against his legs (Syed can foresee pins and needles at some point in his near future) as his head falls gently against Syed's stomach. In sleep, he suddenly looks very, very young. And Syed wants to do physical harm to anyone who would even dream of hurting him.

Which is a mind-set that has its issues, considering –

"Is he feeling any better?"

Syed looks up at the sound of Linda's voice; she's standing by the armchair, one hand on the stick she's using to steady herself and the other clutching the back of the seat as she eases herself into it. Syed moves instinctively to help, but she shakes her head, waving him away before jerking her hand back to support her weight.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," if Syed ever wondered where Christian's stubbornness (or pig-headedness, whichever one suited the situation), this past week has put that curiosity to rest. "Anyway, you look like you've pretty much got your hands full there" – she nods her head at Christian's sleeping form, which seems set on pinning Syed to the sofa – "so I'll be alright."

Syed's hand moves back to Christian's head, his palm settling against his hair; still apart from the gentle movement of his thumb just behind Christian's ear. It takes a few seconds more for Linda to successfully settle herself in the chair, her expression a mixture of triumph at having succeeded and pain at it ever having been a challenge to start with (Syed is quickly compiling a mental file of every time he realises where another of Christian's traits have come from).

"He never did like being ill," Linda's gaze settles on Christian; Syed follows her line of sight, a tiny smile twitching at the corner of his mouth as the man in question burrows further into his shirt. "He always liked being in control, even when he was little – he could cope with bruises, and cuts, and bumps, and gashes, but one hint of a cold or a sickness bug and he was on the couch before you had time to get the thermometer out."

Syed's smile stretches further as Linda speaks, a warm feeling coiling within him as Christian's breath gently buffets his stomach. He knows so very little about Christian as a child; Christian is a man of the present, and any talk of his childhood has always been brushed away with a smile or a joke or a more underhanded tactic (and Christian was very good at making Syed forget his train of thought). It's never that Syed detects any large undercurrent of pain. It's more that it's just a topic that Christian would rather not talk about.

But he can imagine Christian as a little boy. It makes him smile just to think about it. He can imagine a bundle of energy, badly behaved but never maliciously so; kind, friendly, the kind of child that wants to talk to everyone and do everything.

"He was such a lively child; that's why he coped so badly with being ill, I think."

Syed can feel himself taking note of everything Linda is saying, for the same reason that Christian is so eager to learn about his religion – he doesn't want any part of this man closed off to him.

"If he couldn't do what he wanted to do, then he didn't know what to do with himself. But he was never really bad. Annoying, sometimes - difficult, definitely – but still good, you know?" – Syed knows, and he knows that Linda knows he knows – "And he was kind as well. Sometimes too kind. Too trusting. It got him into some trouble, I can tell you now – I lost track of the amount of times I had to deal with tears and tantrums because someone hadn't treated him how he wanted to be treated. And he always knew exactly how he wanted to be treated."

She stops suddenly, as if she's suddenly remembered that Syed is still there.

"I'm not boring you, am I?"

Syed feels like the affectionate smile is making him look a little bit silly, but try as he might he can't get it under control.

"Not at all," Christian stirs slightly in his lap, his hair tickling gently at Syed's palm. "I always wondered. My mum practically ambushed him with the family photo albums a week after we – I mean, as soon as she had the chance – but there was never anything like that with him. I could imagine what he was like, but he never talks about it, so I never – "

"It wasn't that he was unhappy."

Syed feels his face go slightly red.

"I didn't mean that."

"No, I know you didn't, but I just think it needs saying," Linda smiles, and the crimson flare on Syed's cheeks begins to recede – at first, the similarity to his own mother was disconcerting, but now, especially as he begins to place the similarities alongside the obvious differences, it's reassuring. "He was happy. When he was younger. Even got on with his father, not that you could tell to look at them now. It's just as he got older – "

Linda sighs, her gaze falling gently on Christian as though the glare of her eyes could wake him; Syed wonders if she's really seeing the man he sees, or whether she's seeing the little boy, the teenager, the young man that she remembers so well and Syed knows so little about. She smiles thinly, sadly, real affection holding hands with regret.

"I've not been the best mother to him," her gaze flicks to Syed, coaxing his eyes up to hers. "But, from what I hear, you've not necessarily been the best husband."

Syed's hand freezes mid-stroke. He pales slightly. His mouth opens. No sound comes out. He's midway through a deep breath, trying to form words to try and explain to Christian's mother – his _mother_ of all people – when Linda lays a gentle hand on his wrist.

"I don't know you, Syed, and I barely know my own son, not the man he is now. I don't have any right to criticise. So I won't. I'll keep an eye on you, mark my words, and if you ever hurt him again - but my son knows himself better than I do, and after seeing the way that he looks at you – the way that you look at him –" another sigh, her hand falling from Syed's wrist, hovering just a moment over Christian's hair before settling back in her lap – "I've made a lot of mistakes, with Christian, and it's too late for me to do much about it now. It would be almost insulting to try. But it's not too late for you to do something. So just – keep loving him? Looking after him? Promise me that and I'll be the most – well, not necessarily nice, but tolerant – mother-in-law you could ever hope to have. Do we have a deal?"

Syed opens his mouth to answer - eager, sincere, feeling the honesty swell within him after the lies that he's let haunt him for too long – but at that moment Christian stirs, turning his face away from Syed's shirt as his eyes crack open, flicking from Syed to his mother. A low groan croaks from his throat as he shuts his eyes again almost immediately.

"Oh god," the hand that isn't still clutching Syed's comes up to cover his face. "You're talking about me aren't you? Can't you just - " he buries his face into Syed's stomach again, his arm coming up over his head to cocoon himself against Syed's shirt " – let me die in peace?"

Syed tries, and fails, to stifle a laugh. Christian grunts in protest, smacking his hand feebly against him before letting it flop back to cover his head. Linda just smiles and begins to manoeuvre herself out of the chair.

"I think you've got this," she directs the smile at Syed, letting him return it before making her way out of the room.

As her footsteps begin to recede, Christian peeks out from Syed's shirt.

"Is she gone?"

Syed sighs, his feigned exasperation betrayed by the affectionate grin that stretches his face.

"Yes, she is."

"Good," Christian's head flops back, his voice muffled against Syed. "Now I'm gonna die on you."

"You're not going to die."

"Tell that to my head. And my stomach. And my everything. And while you're at it, could you have a word with God as well? We haven't talked in a while. And He likes you."

Syed's smile twitches down, just a little.

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"Well he should. Because I like you. You're comfy," Christian's words begin to run together, vibrating into a whirr of noise against Syed's stomach. His hand clenches around Syed's, pressing them both against his chest. It's as though everything of the past few weeks – every little thing – is, in this moment, forgotten, because Christian needs Syed and wants Syed, and that's all that matters.

His fingers brush through Christian's hair; once, twice, slowly and gently as Christian's breath grows steady against him.

"You should go back to sleep."

Christian makes a tiny noise of assent, his body curling so his torso presses Syed into the couch.

"You'll still be here when I wake up?" Syed feels, more than hears, the tiny whisper as Christian begins to drift off.

"Yeah," he feels Christian's heartbeat beneath his fingers, and feels his stomach twisting with too many emotions for him to have the energy to pinpoint. "Even if you're ill and whiny and snotty and just a tiny little bit gross. I'm not going anywhere. I'll never - "

He stops before he even gets into his stride.

Because Christian is already asleep.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! If you have any suggestions for vignettes I can do, or issues you'd like covered, or scenarios you'd like me to incorporate, just let me know and I'll see what I can do. _


End file.
